Folded, creased,
a line down the middle divides us.
Tattered edges,
not in colour,
nor black and white,
old but not dated,
on display,
in a window.
We fade in memory as we lose our fight with the sun.
- Author: Yorke ( Offline)
- Published: November 20th, 2016 16:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
Comments2
I really liked this gene
Thank you for reading and replying
Wonderfully written poem
Thank you for being so kind.
Welcome
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